Ah, the myriad unsung benefits of being married! The chance to gather up 18 half-drunk cups of tea a day and fling them resentfully into the dishwasher! The chance to answer at least nine in 10 questions ever asked of you by your beloved with one of three stock responses through damagingly gritted teeth – "How should I know?", "Probably right where you left it!" and, "I told you before – no!" And, above all, the chance to do another adult's thinking at all times.

This week has yielded an even more bounteous selection of opportunities to practise this last and most precious of the domestic arts, as I am attempting to leave the house for three days. It was not long after we embarked on the magical journey of cohabiting, you see, that we determined that it would be both a longer and even more magical journey if I went and stayed somewhere else for at least 10% of every month. Usually I go to my parents. My dad makes an enormous fish pie (one month with pastry, one month with mashed potato on top, an indulgence frowned upon by pie-purists in the extended family but to which we both stubbornly cleave, shamelessly committed to the sybaritic lifestyle as we are) and when it is all gone, I return home.

In order to maintain a reasonably peaceable state of mind while I am away, however, it is necessary to run through a series of prophylactic reminders before I go.

"Toryboy, get down here."

I hear the slamming shut of the latest tome about wartime naval triumphs and the Man in Tweed galumphs downstairs.

"You called, light of my life?"

"I did. I'm leaving tomorrow, so it's time for your tour of duties."

"Lead on, tiny wife."

"This is the kitchen. There's bread in the bread bin – that's the bread bin – milk in the fridge – that's the fridge – and fruit there, in the fruit bowl. When the fruit goes off because you haven't eaten it, put it in the compost bin in the garden. Do not leave the gas on after you have finished cooking Super Noodles. Do not cook Super Noodles more than twice a day. They do not meaningfully represent any of the food groups."

"I read an article..."

"No, you didn't."

We move to the source of greatest marital disharmony.

"This is the toilet. Flush it after every use. If you have done unspeakableness, flush it again and re-check. Then stick the brush down a couple of times because nothing takes the edge off one's post-holiday mood than spending the afternoon chipping bits of dried shit off the porcelain. Capiche?"

"I capiche."

"Come through to the garden. See these? What are these?"

"These are the two pots of vegetables – I understand that these long green things are beans and the spherical reddening things tomatoes, unless you have worked out a way to grow me a new set of balls – that you and your imbecile ilk believe are all that stands between us and annihilation by the giant mythical beast of global warming."

"And you are going to water them, every day. With water that has been caught in the rain butt that is going to save your sorry ass when the beast comes looking for you."

"I'm going to soak muesli in kerosene and use it to fuel patio heaters for a party while you're gone."

"Upstairs, we have the bathroom. If you hang up your towel after you have used it, it will dry in time for you to use it again the next day. If you do not, it will not. I thought about it long and hard, and decided to reach a new low in our relationship by hiding all the clean towels so that you cannot simply take a new one out of the airing cupboard every morning."